How Sundance Doesn't Compare
by druidgoddess
Summary: Mark's reached a pinnacle, but . . . it's not what he's thinking of all of a sudden.


For the first time in my life, I was at a pinacle that didn't involve sex, drugs, booze or being able to piss farther than my roommate. I was somewhere expensive and in a tux ( which my "agent" had bought me with my new found wealth ), and for the first time, I questioned it.

I'd always dreamed, in that loft, that someday, my footage, the painstaking work of capturing the rawest things I had ever seen to some of the sweetest and most fuflilling, then combining them into the picture that could change your heart, would shake the world.

Now, it felt like I had blown the top off my bohemian life. I wanted to walk away when I say someone quoting Collins or dressing like Maureen. Or worst, emulating myself, down the details of the scarf. My scarf. It had been taken away. I wonder what happened to it.

All the layers I had once dressed in out of necessity were gone. I touched my lapel and longed for the reassuring feel of the ruined suede of my coat covered with bits of wool from my scarf. All I could feel was the sleek silk of my dress coat.

Even my hands were changed. Once stained with theNew York City and the nails chewed to nothing from my constant nerves, they were now spotless from the manicure I had to get on practically Day One, when I was "discovered".

Another thing I wasn't fond of. How the studio that was backing my film was taking all the credit. I wonder if they knew it took mesix years to cut that thing together. To witness the loves and hates and pains and redemptions that part of my life had been. Did they know about that? From sitting in their offices for the better part of their life?

I watched as the people swarmed at the barrier, dressed like my friends to a tee. I longed to be back home again, in the loft with Roger, trying to out piss him while everyone else watched, reactions depending. Collins thinking it was hysterical, Maureen trying to keep a straight face for the benefit of Joanne, who had gone quite pale and Mimi telling Roger to get it back in his pants or they would not be doing anything tonight.

Roger spent that night on the couch, needless to say.

I reflected as one boy thrust his hand forward with a notepad for me to sign. His eyes were clear and bright and he smiled sincerely. Ignoring my "entourage" telling me to get back there, I walked up to him and signed his paper. I soon found that there were others not just there for the glory, but because they got something of this film and I reached for them.

They were young and older and all the same. There were paint stained hands and hands with their nails chewed down and tattooed hands. They were artists hands to me. I signed anything they asked and only walked further into the crush. I saw the band playing out front having some trouble with the cops and the couple walking down the road.

I remembered why I was here. I was Sundance, I should be out of my mind with glee. But I wasn't. I watched the guitarist punch the cop and the darkness and doubt tugged at my mind.

I needed the money. So desperately. Everyone, so suddenly, their AIDS was getting the better of them. Mimi, Roger and Collins . . . I'd panicked and set out with Joanne to pawn off my masterpiece to save them. And that I did -- at my horrific expense. The indie studio that backed me sold my contract. Along the way, I lost Joanne as my agent and mouthpiece and almost lost contact with everything else.

I felt them pulling me back in -- I had a duty, after all, to them as they paid for whatever it was that I kept sending all the money back to New York for. I watched the glimpse of my once life vanish in the writhing throng and took my seat inside. They cheered for my film; they cheered for me. I felt like weeping.

I got back to my hotel room as soon as possible. I grabbed the phone and called the loft, snapping when Roger screened the call. He picked up the phone as I began to tell him that I would shove pennies under his fingernails if he didn't pick up.

"Remember that time we were pissing?"

Roger choked on what he was eating. "Yeah, Cohen, why?"

"Let's do it again sometime."

He choked again. I heard Mimi in the background. I clasped the phone tight. Sweet salvation.


End file.
